Fears and Trembles - Redux
by dragonkeeper19600
Summary: Years after he had left him behind, a man from Waylon Smithers's past comes back into his life. Based off the story idea and characters by Lisbeth Simpson.
1. Sweet Tooth

**AN: **Okay,_ before you read this thing, let me explain how this story came to be, how it died, and how I am trying to bring it back to life._

_So, those of you on this site who are Burns/Smithers shippers may remember a little story that used to be on here titled, "Fears and Trembles." It was a sequl to a previous story the author had written and told the tale of the abuse Smithers suffered at the hands of an evil man. It was written by an author called Lisbeth Simpson, who sadly no longer exists on this site. That story also does not exist. It was removed several weeks ago._

_It was removed because of me._

_Yes, I am the one who killed "Fears and Trembles."_

_I didn't mean to. As part of my blog on Tumblr, I take fan fics that I don't like and MST them with the twin intents of trying to achieve some sort of comedic effect and trying to give my readers advice on what not to do on their own stories. Needless to say, I MSTed the fan fic, "Fears and Trembles," exclaiming my everlasting hatred for the thing. _

_What I did not expect was for Lisbeth Simpson to find out._

_I don't know how she found out about me or my riffing, but once she did, she was very hurt. So hurt that she removed every single story she'd ever written and asked me not to continue the MST of her story. Well, to comply with her wishes (and because I didn't have any other choice) I have not MSTed any more of the story._

_But I felt really bad. It was never my intent to make her stop writing. It's never my intent to make anyone stop writing. And, even though I really hated the story, I still feel like there were some good ideas in it. And I personally hold the opinion that any story can potentially be saved if the right things are done to it._

_So, as a thank you gift to Lisbeth Simpson, and because I really wanted to try my hand at telling this story, I present to you my own version of "Fears and Trembles," titled, _Fears and Trembles - Redux. _I've changed around a lot of things, but I think the core values that Lisbeth Simpson was trying to get across have remained the same._

_So, I've built this thing up long enough, let's begin. Here we go, _Fears and Trembles - Redux!

* * *

**Chapter 1 – Sweet Tooth**

The message had come in over the intercom in Smithers's office. "Smithers, I'm expecting a very important guest this morning. Do _not_ let anyone into my office."

Smithers pressed the button in front of the little microphone on his desk and answered with a brisk, "Yes, sir." He briefly wondered who this "important guest" was, but he quickly brushed the thought aside and got back to alphabetizing the list of the plant employees' mortal weaknesses. He was not the type to question if he felt that it was not necessary. If Mr. Burns thought it was important for him to know who this guest was, then he would have told him. And if Mr. Burns didn't think it was important, it probably wasn't. He trusted his boss.

So, in addition to his normal duties for the day, Smithers preoccupied himself with keeping people away from Mr. Burns' office. It wasn't that hard. Most people were terrified of the old man and kept away if they could. Of course, Smithers knew better. Underneath that hard and hasty exterior was a kind, gentle, and magnificent soul, and it was always quite amazing to Smithers that more people didn't seem able to see that.

As the morning went on, Smithers busied himself with finishing the filing, composing yet another lengthy email to the EPA, and chasing out a wild raccoon that had somehow snuck into the break room. He was just beginning to start on that report of the employees' safety record (abysmal, as usual), when he heard the heavy, mahogany doors to Mr. Burns office open, then close. Since the person had not knocked, and there was no outburst coming through the intercom, Smithers assumed that this must be the "important guest." He checked his watch and smiled, a little pleased that the person had come in before noon (It was always so rude when people came in late.), before returning to work, thinking no more of it.

It was just before lunch, after he had finished chasing Hans Moleman (who was repeatedly asking to go home for the day on account of the large pipe that had been wedged through his hand) away from Mr. Burns door for the third time that morning, when he heard the distant click of the intercom in his office. Quickly, Smithers rushed back and picked up the mike. "Yes, sir?" he asked.

"Smithers," Mr. Burns ordered, "Bring up some tea for me and my guest."

"Right away, sir," answered Smithers.

So, he stepped quickly into the private kitchen (the idea of having his tea made in the break room along with all the other employees had always been repulsive to Mr. Burns) and quickly put together a tray with a pot of Earl Grey tea, just the way Mr. Burns liked it, and added two cups. Balancing the tray carefully on one arm, he made his way briskly back to Mr. Burns' office, the various pits of china on his arm not making a sound. Humming a little tune, he reached out with one hand, twisted the heavy brass knob, and opened the door.

And as soon as it was open, he froze, the china clattered heavily against the edge of the tray, the tune he'd been humming choked and died in his throat, and he stared.

There was a man sitting in front of Mr. Burns' desk, half-leaning back in his chair, his arms propped up and reclining in an attitude of jaunty friendliness. He looked to be about in his sixties, with snow-white hair and a wrinkle across each cheek, yet his seemed to be the type of face that starts out life merely cute and then becomes slowly more and more attractive with age. As it was now, this man was tall and handsome, with hair that hung over his forehead in just the right way and a kind, open smile that invited you in.

The immediate instinct of every cell in Smithers's body was to drop the tray and flee. And yet, curiously, he did not seem to be able to move. He stood there, his eyes wide, rooted to the spot.

Mr. Burns grew impatient.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" he snapped. "Hurry up and get in here!"

At this point, Smithers felt the tray begin to slide and totter from his arm. He hastily moved his other arm to support it, almost dropping it in the process.

"Uh, s-sorry, sir," he mumbled before forcing himself to walk forward, moving as man forced to walk himself to the guillotine.

The other man kept his gaze focused on Smithers as he passed by.

As he walked, the china continued the rattle in his arms. This went unnoticed by the two older men and probably would have not seemed notable by anyone else, but for Smithers, who was always completely calm and in command of himself at work, who always carried the china smoothly and without a sound, this small rattling was indicative of a storm raging inside.

As soon as he reached the desk and set the tray down upon it, the rattling escalated to full-blown shivering, and, before he could do anything about it, the sugar bowl rolled from his grasp and shattered on the carpet.

"What the devil's gotten into you today, Smithers?" asked Mr. Burns, clearly annoyed.

Smithers hung his head, ashamed. "I-I'm terribly sorry, sir," he muttered, as he bent down to pick up the bowl. The other man's mouth twitched slightly, as if he were suppressing the urge to burst out laughing.

"Never mind!" shouted Mr. Burns, waving his hand dismissively. "Just clean this mess up and go fetch some more sugar!"

"Yes, sir," said Smithers. Quietly, he gathered up the jagged pieces of the bowl and walked away.

He soon returned with a dustpan and brush. As he pushed open the door he could hear the other man say in a smooth, baritone voice, "Kind of a jumpy assistant you have there, Monty."

"Feh! It's always something with that one," said Mr. Burns, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

Smithers quietly brushed up the dusty sugar from the carpet, getting as much as he could, before rising to his feet and reaching into his pocket. He then pulled out a handful of pink sugar packets, and half-heartedly dropped them in a pile on the table. Then he quickly turned to leave, hoping perhaps that he could make it out the door before…

"Ah, Smithers, stay in here a while. I might need you for something else," called Mr. Burns.

Smithers stopped, one foot over the doorway, and cringed mentally. Of course, he knew the real reason Mr. Burns wanted him in the room. Mr. Burns liked to have Smithers standing behind him while he had a "guest" in his office, as a means of intimidation. Not because he thought Smithers was particularly intimidating (he wasn't) but because showing off an incredibly loyal lackey helped keep up an air of power and control, which Mr. Burns loved dearly.

Smithers swallowed the protestation that he felt building up against his will and answered, "Yes, sir," as he always did. As soon as he'd dumped out the dustpan, he took his normal place behind Mr. Burns' chair, his hands clasped his back.

The other man had taken his gaze away from Smithers and was now busy pouring quite a large quantity of cream into his teacup.

"Now," said Mr. Burns, stirring his own tea idly. "What did you say your name was again?"

The other man chuckled as he ripped open a sugar packet. "It's Alfred. Alfred Spencer. C'mon, Monty, I told you that already." He dumped the contents of the packet into his tea and shot a winning smile at Mr. Burns. "Heh, not much of a spring chicken, are you Monty?"

Mr. Burns gave a fake chuckle back. "Oh ho, yes. Of course," he said. He then turned to Smithers in a not-so-subtle movement. "What the deuce is he talking about?" he hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

"It's a metaphor, sir," said Smithers, struggling to keep his voice steady. "It means you're not young anymore."

Mr. Burns adopted a look of surprise before bursting into a genuine laugh. "Oh, well why didn't you just say so!" he said, turning back to Alfred. "Why, I've spent such a small portion of my life being young it's ridiculous!"

Alfred laughed as he dumped in another pack of sugar. "I hear ya," he said. "I hear ya." He then ripped open and dumped in a third packet. Then a fourth. He had dumped in the fifth when he noticed Mr. Burns staring.

"Oh, sorry," he said, holding up a sixth packet. "I got a bit of a sweet tooth."

Mr. Burns, who always took his tea completely black, didn't seem to understand, but he was apparently willing to let it go. "Ah, yes," he said, bemusedly, "Anyway, I think this merger you've proposed sounds promising."

"Oh, yeah, I agree!" said Alfred heartily, stirring his tea at last. "I've heard a lot about you, Monty. You seem like a fine business man." He took a sip of his milked and sugared tea and gave a smile of complete satisfaction. He held the cup out to Smithers with a wink. "Mmm, you make a mighty fine cup of tea, sir!" he said.

Smithers swallowed and cast his eyes to the floor. "Ah, thank you," he managed.

Mr. Burns cleared his throat, apparently thinking that the conversation was straying off-topic. "Yes, well," he said, "How exactly did you hear about me?"

Alfred settled back in his chair. "Well, as you can see, I'm not too young anymore myself," he said, "So I came here to Springfield to retire."

"Retire? Here? In this backwater town?" repeated Mr. Burns, grinning. "Whatever for?"

Alfred grinned and shrugged. "What can I say?" he said, "I'm a weirdo."

"Yes," said Mr. Burns.

"Anyway," Alfred went on, "I got myself a nice house here, big, with a pool, just like I always wanted, and I happened to hear your name around town. Montgomery Burns. The richest son of a bitch in this fine state of ours."

Mr. Burns scoffed teasingly and waved his hand in the air, in a way that clearly meant, "Oh, go on!"

"So, since I am retired and have nothing to do, I looked into your plant a bit. And I must say, this is a very promising facility you have here. Why, I've looked at your safety record! Completely spotless! Very impressive!"

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Burns, smirking. "We all try our best." He shot a quick conspiratorial glance at Smithers, who managed to smile back weakly. Of course, the record was not spotless, but Smithers made a habit of wiping the record completely clean before releasing it to the public. ("Just call me your own personal dry board eraser, sir," he'd said. "My what?" said Mr. Burns)

"And so," Alfred continued. "I thought to myself. 'Now Alfred, here's a good investment opportunity!' Because even though I'm not working anymore, there's only one thing a rich man wants, as I'm sure you know well enough."

Mr. Burns nodded. "Yes," he agreed.

Both of the rich men took the moment to take a sip at their teas.

"Now," said Mr. Burns, setting down his cup. "Tell me, what exactly is it that your company does?"

"Oh," said Alfred, "I'm into electronics."

"Which are?"

Alfred laughed. "Little electric gizmos that you keep in your pocket," he explained patiently. "We actually specialize in remote-controlled RVs, virtual pets, things like that. For kids, you know?"

"Ah, yes," said Mr. Burns. He then turned to Smithers and gave him a look to show that he was completely lost, before turning back to Alfred. "Well," he said, "I think that's all I need to know. We just need to discuss an exact amount, and then we can get to signing that contract."

"Great!" said Alfred enthusiastically, clapping one fist into his other hand. He beamed. "I'm really looking forward to working with you, Monty. In a matter of speaking, of course."

Mr. Burns smiled, a little less warmly than Alfred. "Naturally," he said. "So, your starting price?"

"Actually," said Alfred, leaning back in his chair. "Before we talk about that, I was wondering if I could ask you a favor."

Mr. Burns' eyes narrowed, and the smile dropped from his face. "What sort of favor?" he asked.

"Oh, don't worry!" Alfred laughed, waving his hands in front of his chest. "It's nothing big. I'm not asking you for money or anything."

Mr. Burns seemed to relax slightly. "Oh," he said, "Well, what is it?"

"Well," said Alfred, "I was wondering if I could have a word in private with your assistant, there."

Smithers paled. Mr. Burns frowned, clearly perplexed. "With _him?" _he asked. He quickly shot a confused glance at Smithers, as though he was trying to ascertain whether Alfred meant the same assistant he thought he did. He confirmed that he did, indeed, and looked back, completely flabbergasted. "Why?"

Alfred shrugged. "Oh, just a whim of mine," he said. "I find him very interesting."

"Tch, well!" exclaimed Mr. Burns, clearly finding the idea absurd.

"He is an employee of yours, right?" asked Alfred. "I'd just like to ask him a few questions about the working conditions and such. You know, find out a little bit more about what I'm putting my money into."

"Well…" said Mr. Burns, twirling his fingers together. It was clear that he could not fathom why this man would want to speak to Smithers, but on the other hand, he trusted Smithers to say exactly what he would want him to. Behind him, Smithers held his breath, waiting for the answer.

"… I suppose it wouldn't hurt…" he finally said. Smithers felt a chill carve its way through his body.

"Ah, great!" said Alfred again. He made a move to rise from his chair. "So, should we step into the hallway, or-?"

"Ah, that won't be necessary," said Mr. Burns, rising from his chair. "I'll leave you two in here to discuss whatever-it-is-you-wanted. Besides, if we're really going to sign this thing, I have to get my good quill."

"Quill?" repeated Alfred, lowering himself back into his chair. "Can't you just use a pen, Monty?"

Mr. Burns snorted dismissively. "I don't go for that newfangled technology. I'll be right back." He made a move to go.

Panicking, Smithers quickly reached out and grabbed his boss by the arm. "S-sir?" he stuttered. "C-Can I talk to you for a second?"

Mr. Burns made a face and shook off his assistant's hand. "Not now Smithers. Just stay here and entertain this fellow for a second. Be sure to tell him the 'truth.'" And with a grin and a wink, he began to walk away.

"Wait!" cried Smithers. "But, sir!"

"I'll be back as soon as I find that quill!" called Mr. Burns, not bothering to turn around. He grabbed the door and with some effort managed to swing it open. He turned around and as he closed it behind him and said, "Now, you two just stay here and chat." He shot one more smile at the two men in his office before he disappeared and the door swung shut.

Now Smithers and Alfred were all alone. Smithers forced himself to keep looking at the man who sat before him, forced himself to keep standing tall in front of him. It proved unimaginably difficult.

"Well," said Alfred, rising out of his chair. "I'm glad we finally got a chance to talk." He stood up and, with a smile, held out his arms, as though he were expecting a hug. "It's been a long time, hasn't it, Waylon?"

Smithers didn't move from where he was standing behind the desk. He stared at this man with as blank an expression as he could muster. "What do you want?" he asked.

Alfred dropped both his arms, and his smile turned a little sad. "Now, now, Waylon," he said. "What kind of greeting is that? After all, I haven't seen you much in the past few years."

"You haven't seen me at all," said Smithers quietly. "And that's the way I like it."

Alfred was not to be deterred. "Enough about me," he said cheerfully. "Let's talk about you. I mean, look at you!" He around the desk to Smithers and threw his arm around his shoulder. Smithers, who had been trying to stand up straight before, now became rigid. Alfred grinned, leaning on Smithers a little. He was quite strong. "Your own job, your own office, your own suit…" He tugged at the padded shoulder of Smithers's coat. "It is your own, right Waylon? That's not the uniform or anything, is it?"

Smithers felt his lip trembling with suppressed emotion. He couldn't help it; his gaze dropped down to the carpet. "Please don't touch me," he muttered, barely audibly.

Alfred sighed and shook his head. "Really, Waylon. We've got to work on those people skills," he said. "After all, what kind of way is that to talk to your old man?"


	2. What He Wants

**Chapter 2 - What He Wants**

Smithers didn't move, but from under Alfred's arm, he felt a wave of a heat that resembled nausea rising up inside of him. He clenched his fists where they hung at his sides.

"You are_ not_ my father," he said through gritted teeth.

Alfred waved his hand in the air.

"Eh," he sad. "Dad, stepdad, same difference, right?"

Smithers looked up at Alfred with an expression impossible to describe.

"What do you want?" he said again.

Alfred let out an exasperated breath. "Honestly, Waylon. Why so suspicious? I'm just here to see my stepson, is all. Is that really any reason to be so hostile to your old man?"

Smithers cast his eyes back down to the floor. "Please let go of me," he said.

Alfred didn't move his arm from Smithers's shoulder but leaned on it more heavily, circling his arm around his neck like a python. "Honestly, Waylon," he said, tapping him on the chest with his other finger. "You're not still mad, are you? Can't we just all grow up and let bygones be bygones?"

Smithers turned his face away from Alfred, looking suddenly much older than he had half an hour ago.

Alfred sighed and stepped away from Smithers, releasing him. Smithers didn't move but his shoulder gave an involuntary jerk as his stepfather moved away. "Well, fine," said Alfred. "If that's the way you're going to be. I suppose I'll humor you for a little bit."

"How did you find me?" asked Smithers quietly, still looking away.

Alfred leaned back against the tall windows in Mr. Burns' office and folded his arms. "Well, it wasn't hard, really. I just had somebody look you up for me. It only took a few days."

Smithers felt all the color drain from his face as what his stepfather was saying to him sunk in. He whirled around to face him. "You_ hired_ somebody to find out where I work?" he asked, horrified.

"Yeah," said Alfred. "I looked you up online first, but I wanted to make sure. Go the extra mile, you know." He clapped his hands together. "Who would have thought you'd be working in the exact same place we dropped you off all those years ago?"

Smithers clenched his fists. "So what if I have?" he demanded.

"Oh, nothing, really," said Alfred. "It's just that most people would have moved out or something. I'd imagine that after living with that man for years you would've been sick of him." He raised an eyebrow and looked up at the livid man in front of him. "How much is he paying you to work for him, huh? C'mon, Waylon, you can tell me."

"That's none of your business!" Smithers snapped.

"C'mon, son, what is it?" Alfred pressed. "$100,000 a year? Something like that? Anything less than that, and he's ripping you off, boy."

"It doesn't matter how much he's paying me! I don't care about that!" Smithers shouted.

"Why?" asked Alfred.

Smithers's fear was temporarily forgotten. This man had insulted Mr. Burns, and so, by extension, he had also insulted Smithers. And this insult was not to be tolerated.

"For your information," he said, infuriated. "I would work for Mr. Burns for free!"

Alfred snorted with an amused expression. "Uh, they call that 'slavery,' son."

"I don't care!" Smithers snapped. "Mr. Burns is a great man, and I feel honored just to live on the same_ planet_ as him!"

Alfred stared, looking utterly bewildered. Then he let out a laugh. "Wow," he said, "You really mean it." He shook his head, grinning. "I always knew you were a weird kid."

Smithers snarled in frustration. This was more than his pride could take. "What do you want?" he shouted. "I thought… I thought you were gone! I thought you were out of my life! _Why are you here?"_

Alfred frowned, raised himself up from the window, and turned to face Smithers. "Well, since you don't seem that interested in conversation, I suppose I'll just tell you. Waylon!" he straightened up and smiled proudly, as though what he was about to say brought him the greatest joy in the world. "I came here to ask you to terminate your employment with that old fossil and come work for me!"

Smithers blinked. "Wh-What?" he asked.

"You heard me, son!" said Alfred proudly. "I dropped you off here all those years ago, and now I'm finally back to pick you up! Isn't that great, Waylon?"

Smithers felt a chill suddenly erupt inside him. He shuddered and fiercely shook his head. "No," he said.

"Sorry?" said Alfred. "No what, Waylon?"

"No," said Smithers again, a little louder. "I won't work for you."

Alfred looked hurt. "Aw, c'mon Waylon. Don't be like that. Just think of how great it'll be! You and your old man, together again…"

"Don't make me laugh."

"You seem like a hard worker," Alfred went on, "I'd love to have someone like you work for me. I'll pay you more than whatever that old geezer is paying you."

"I told you, I don't care about that!" Smithers snapped. "I work for Charles Montgomery Burns! Now, get out!"

For a small moment, Smithers was surprised at his own boldness. But he quickly dismissed these feelings as perfectly natural. What did he have to fear, now that he was working for Mr. Burns?

But then, Alfred sighed and straightened up. "Well, if that's your answer, then fine," he said. "I guess I'll get going then." And he turned to go.

Smithers blinked. He had not been expecting this. Alfred wasn't the type of man to just back down so easily. "R-really?" he asked, taken aback. "That's it?"

"Yup," said Alfred, making for the door. "I guess that's it. No point in dragging this out if you're not interested. Besides, I gotta be outta here by three to pick up my daughter, anyway."

Smithers froze. "Your… daughter?" he repeated.

Alfred stopped where he was and turned, a warm smile on his face. "Oh! Didn't I tell you?" he said. "I'm going to go pick up my daughter at the airport today. I haven't seen her in years, so I'm kinda nervous." He grinned sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, looking for all the world like a proud, somewhat embarrassed father.

But Smithers wasn't fooled. "You have a… daughter?" he said again, looking troubled.

Alfred laughed. "I know what you're thinking," he said, "And don't worry. She isn't Eliza's. I had her after I split from your mother. She's only nineteen. Name's Amelia. My little Amelia."

Smithers felt another slow chill cracking inside him when he realized what exactly Alfred was saying. "She's… she's that young?" he said slowly. "And… she's coming to live with you?"

"Yeah," said Alfred, looking down at the carpet with another sad smile. "I was hoping it would be the three of us. You, me, and my little girl. But seeing as you don't want to work for me, I guess it'll just be me and Amelia, all by our lonesome."

Smithers felt the blood drain from his face.

"Oh, and she's from a convent, did I tell you that?" Alfred went on. "Yup, she's been in a convent in Austria for the past thirteen years. We sent her there when she was six years old. This'll be her first time in the States in a long time." He rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling, still smiling wistful, and continued as though unaware of Smithers's presence. "Yes sir," he said, "Growin' up with all those nuns, she probably doesn't know anything about the world. Guess it'll be up to me to teach her. She'll have to rely on me for quite a while, she's so young and innocent..."

All while he was talking, the look on Smithers's face grew more and more horrified. His stepfather stood before him, still with that wistful, humorous smile; Smithers felt that if he looked at it anymore he would be sick. He cast his eyes down to the floor, the cold knot in his stomach still twisting.

"Well," said Alfred, "I guess I've bothered you long enough. I better get going. See you later, Waylon." And he walked toward the door and set his hand on the brass knob. Just one twist and he would be outside.

"Wait," said Smithers.

Alfred stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Yes?" he asked.

Smithers stared at a portion of the carpet in front of him, unable to bear meeting his stepfather's eyes. "I… I'll work for you," he stammered.

Alfred's expression immediately lit up, as though this news brought him nothing but joy. "Really?" he asked, "You've changed your mind?"

Smithers found himself unable to move. "Yes," he muttered.

"Sorry?" said Alfred, cocking his head to the side. "Didn't quite catch that."

"Yes," he said louder. "I've changed my mind. I'll work for you."

Alfred beamed, walked up, and clapped his stepson heavily on the shoulder. "Aw, attaboy, Waylon," he said. "I knew you'd change your mind."

Smithers hung his head. To his humiliation, he felt his eyes beginning to sting.

"Oh, c'mon, boy," said Alfred, cupping his hand under Smithers's chin. "Chin up! Just think of it, son! The three of us, all together."

"Sure," Smithers muttered, not making a move to escape his stepfather's hand.

Alfred stepped away from Smithers and grinned. "Well, I guess that settles it," he said. He began to walk toward the door. "I suppose we can let Monty back in," he said, putting his hand back on the knob. "Hey, Monty!" he started to call.

To his surprise, however, Mr. Burns was already standing there, his gaze already fixed on the exact point where Alfred was standing. In his hands was a rather large peacock quill, which stood taller than the old man's head. "Got it!" he said smoothly, holding it up.

"Oh!" said Alfred, taking a step back. "Didn't see you there, Monty. I, uh, hope we didn't keep you waiting!"

"Oh, not at all," said Mr. Burns, walking past Alfred back into his office. "I hope you'll forgive me about the delay," he said, "It just took me a little longer than I thought to find my quill." He sat himself down his armchair, and spun around to face Alfred with the air and haughtiness of a French prince. "So," he said, "I take it you two are quite finished?"

"Yes, actually," said Alfred pleasantly, putting his hands in his pockets and walking up to the desk. Smithers followed him with his eyes as he walked, looking as though he wanted to say something but dared not. "We were just finishing up," Alfred went on, ignoring Smithers. He sat back down in the chair across from Mr. Burns. "I think we're about ready to wrap this up, don't you?"

"Yes," said Mr. Burns, leaning back in his chair. "We just need to discuss the subject of price."

"Oh, and one more thing," said Alfred.

"Heh?" said Mr. Burns, a crease forming between his eyes. He did not like to be distracted from discussions about price.

"In order for this deal to go down," said Alfred, "I'd like for your assistant here to come work for me."

Mr. Burns started and cast his gaze quickly at Smithers, who had his eyes cast down to the floor. "You want _my_ assistant?" Mr. Burns said, dumbfounded. "Why? Get your own!"

"Well, see, the thing is, Monty, I don't really want another one." He lay his hand on Smithers's arm, still keeping his eyes fixed on Burns. "This one suits me just fine, and I'd like him."

"Now see here!" Mr. Burns snapped, slamming both his hands on his desk. "What exactly gives you the right to just burst in here and demand other people's lickspittles? Give away _my_ assistant? Impossible! Who else on this earth knows my filing system?" He cast an accusatory eye towards Smithers. "Did _you_ have anything to do with this?"

Smithers snapped his gaze up to his boss, with a look so full of longing that it would have melted the hardest hearts. "Sir," he said in anguish, "I-!"

But Alfred cut him off. "I've already discussed this with him," he said calmly. "And he said that it would be find with him, as long as that's what you wanted."

Mr. Burns scowled and sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers on his emaciated arm. It was clear that he believed that his assistant would say such a thing, but it was also clear that his mistrust, which he inherently held in all things, had just doubled for Alfred. After a short moment, he lay his hands back down on the desk. "I'd think you'd better leave now," he said ominously.

"Eh?" said Alfred. "Sorry?"

"Are you deaf, man?" Mr. Burns snapped. "I said get out! The deal is off! Now remove yourself from my office before I call in the hounds."

Smithers took in a deep, shaky breath. He was immensely comforted by the fact that Mr. Burns wouldn't let him leave with Alfred, but now he had only one option. He was preparing to say something when Alfred leaned back in his chair and held up both his hands in a sign of peace. "Alright, alright," he said, smiling resignedly. "I get the picture. No means no. Right?"

"Yes," said Mr. Burns, still glaring at Alfred. "Now leave. Posthaste."

"What a pity," Alfred sighed, reaching in the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a piece of paper and a pen and begin to scribble. "And we hadn't even had a chance to talk price." He finished whatever he was writing and passed it, face down to Mr. Burns. "I was thinking something like this, to start out with," he said. "Of course, if you wanted to go higher than that, that would be fine."

Raising an eyebrow at Alfred, Mr. Burns laid his hand on the paper, slid it up into his hand, and cast his eyes down upon it. The effect was immediate. He froze, his eyes widened, and a strange sort of gurgling sound came out of his throat. Smithers could see a trickle of drool beginning to form at the corner of his mouth.

"More," he whispered hoarsely.

"Sorry?"

"MORE!"

"Alright, alright," said Alfred calmly, taking the paper out of his rigid hands. He swiftly crossed out the number that he had written and wrote something else underneath. "There," he said, passing the paper back to Mr. Burns. "Will that cover it?"

Mr. Burns snatched the paper greedily and looked upon it as though the act of looking would sate some desperate hunger. And when he saw the number written there, the slow, hungry smile of the hyena spread across his face. "Yes," he hissed slowly, the drool flecking from his mouth. "Yes, that will do just fine." He looked up from the paper and glanced at Smithers as though he hardly recognized him. "Well, Smithers, I suppose that's it, then," he said briskly. "Have fun with your new employer."

"Thank you, sir," said Smithers, hanging his head again. He was saddened but not surprised, and took his forsakenness as inevitable. After all, there is only one thing a rich man wants.

And that is to get richer.

And so, the contract was drawn up, signed, the check was written out, and one's man's life passed from one pair of hands to another. When all was said and done, and Mr. Burns wore the satisfied smile of a boa that has just been fed, Alfred stood up and said:

"Well, thank you for your time, Monty. Now if you'll forgive for paying and running, I've really got to get a move on." He turned to go. "C'mon, Waylon!" he said, gesturing over his shoulder.

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Burns, "But might I get a moment to say farewell?"

Smithers's heart lifted slightly, despite the chills that had erupted within. Alfred turned around, his expression now somewhat amused, but nodded his assent. "Sure, whatever," he said. "Do what you gotta do." And he leaned against the doorframe and checked his watch.

Smithers walked up to Mr. Burns' desk, his heart bursting. Mr. Burns folded his hands under his chin and looked up fondly at his former assistant. "Well, Smithers," he said.

"Well, sir," said Smithers, struggling to keep his voice steady.

"I suppose this is it," said Mr. Burns. He held out his hand with a look of sadness mixed with satisfaction. Smithers took Burns' hand in his own, immediately feeling a sense of lightness from his warmth and his incredibly frail grip. "I sort of knew this day would come eventually," he went on. "You've served me well these past… eh, how many years has it been?"

"I've lost track, sir," said Smithers.

"So have I," said Mr. Burns. He sighed. "Well, I suppose it doesn't really matter."

"Are you sure you'll be alright without me, sir?" Smithers asked anxiously. The idea of his beloved employer (former employer, he checked himself sadly) facing the world alone was deeply troubling to Smithers, and he feared for his boss, more so perhaps than for himself.

"Oh, I'll be fine," said Mr. Burns. "Though, I suppose I'll need to find a new assistant," he added darkly, casting his eyes down.

"Is there anything at all you need me to do for you?" Smithers asked softly. "You know, before I go?"

"Oh, no," said Mr. Burns, disappointing Smithers somewhat. "No, you've done enough. Best be on your way."

Alfred, from where he was leaning, checked his watch again. Smithers swallowed. "Sir," he said, "Before I leave, you should know… I…" he steeled himself, trying to make the words come out. "I… I've always…"

"What?" asked Mr. Burns, looking puzzled. "What is it?"

Smithers looked down at his boss, who was staring at him with such expectant eyes. He felt his heart flutter in his chest. He had waited so long to say these words, so long… But he suddenly remembered Alfred, no doubt listening in, and the idea of confessing himself in front of his stepfather was impossible to him. "I've always enjoyed working for you, sir," he finished.

"I know you have," said Mr. Burns, obliviously. "I know."

Smithers felt like he wanted to scream out of sheer frustration, but he reeled his feelings in and nodded. "Goodbye, sir," he said, struggling to keep his voice from cracking.

"Yes, goodbye," said Mr. Burns, "I'll keep in touch."

Smithers felt the painful clenching in his stomach loosen somewhat. "Really?" he asked, moved.

"Of course," said Mr. Burns, "Goodbye, Smithers. And good luck." And with that, Mr. Burns released his hand.

"Yeah," said Smithers quietly, as if to himself. "Good luck." And with that, his heart full, he turned and walked toward the door, where Alfred was waiting for him. Alfred smiled at Smithers and stretched his arm out toward the door. Smithers stopped, turned, and pushed the door open and held it for his stepfather.

"Man, that took a while," Alfred muttered, as he stepped out into the hall. "Let's go, Smithers."

Smithers kept his eyes to the carpet. "Yes, sir," he said.

And he closed the door behind them.


	3. Pick Up

**Chapter 3 - Pick Up**

Smithers led the way from Mr. Burns' office, trying to take the shortest possible route through the plant. It wasn't a conscious thought, but a vague instinct filled him with a strange dread of being seen by the other employees and caused him to avoid as many of them as he could. If any of them did see him, if any of them did look up, and wondered briefly where Smithers was going with that strange, smiling white-haired guy, not one of them dwelled on it for very long, and they soon returned to their work, and the thought quickly slipped from their minds.

As soon as they reached the exit, Smithers pushed on the cool metal bar of the handle and held the door open for Alfred, who walked briskly through. They were in the parking lot, and the sun gleamed down on them, reflecting off the cement in a white glare.

Alfred pivoted his heel in the gravel of the sidewalk and faced Smithers, his hands in his pockets. "Well, c'mon Smithers!" he said, "We don't wanna be late!"

Smithers glanced up, then sighed. "Right," he said. He let go of the door and walked over, his eyes fixated on the pavement.

Alfred smiled sardonically and clapped Smithers roughly on the shoulder. "Hey, I've had enough of that moping, you hear me?" he said, his arm pressed against the collar of Smithers's shirt.

Smithers swallowed before he nodded again. "Sure," he said.

"Forget the old man, Smithers," Alfred went on. He released Smithers and walked away, his palms open in a shrug. "You'll get over it."

Smithers felt his lip twitching. He most certainly would _not _get over it; he knew that well enough. If Alfred asked him to confirm his sentiment, Smithers didn't think he'd be able to bear it. But luckily, Alfred didn't seem to need an answer. He had already walked ahead, and Smithers moved hastily to catch up.

The pair walked past the employees' parking spaces, with the names scrawled in paint on the wall of the building, and into the sunlight of the visitor's spaces. As they passed it, Smithers glanced wistfully over at Mr. Burns' private space, where his black limousine gleamed impressively. He shook his head forcefully and moved on, a lump in his throat. No more was that world for him. No more.

Finally, quite a distance from the plant, Alfred stopped in front of a much smaller car. Smithers came up behind him and had to step around him to see it.

"Alright, Smithers," said Alfred, turning to face his new assistant. "Here's my first job for you. I need you to drive me to the airport to pick up my daughter."

Smithers stared at the car, a rather shiny model with a mud red paint job, and then up at his stepfather. A crease formed between his eyebrows. "Um," he said, "Do you… really have to go right this second?"

Alfred raised an eyebrow, looking amused. "Well, yeah," he said. "Remember? The plane's gonna be landing pretty soon. I don't want to make her wait. Hold on…" He reached into his pocket and fumbled within it for a moment before drawing out a set of keys. He twirled the key ring briefly on his finger before popping his thumb against the large plastic handle. The latches in the car's doors all turned themselves with a click. He then flipped the keys in his hand and held them out to Smithers, dangling them off the tip of his finger. "Here," he said.

Smithers didn't take the keys. He bit his lip and looked up uncomfortably at his stepfather. "Um-" he began.

"Is there a problem, Smithers?" Alfred asked.

"Well, yes actually," said Smithers. Alfred raised an eyebrow. Smithers went on quickly. "See, I-I usually drive Mr. Burns to work," he said. "So my car is still at his house."

Alfred turned to face Smithers. "And?" he asked.

"Well," said Smithers, "I was thinking maybe I could go and pick up my car first, so that I… could…"

But Alfred shook his head. "Sorry, Smithers," he said. "But we don't really have time for that."

"But I…" Smithers tried again, "How am I supposed to get home?"

"Oh, that's not a problem," said Alfred cheerfully, twirling the keys around his finger again. "I could swing by later and get your car for ya. I'm sure Monty wouldn't mind."

Smithers looked up at Alfred as it dawned on him what his stepfather was doing. Alfred caught the keys in his hand and dangled them in front of Smithers's eyes again. "So?" he asked.

Smithers stood still for a moment in the sunlight, before letting out a breath and taking the keys from Alfred. "Yes, sir," he said.

"Good man!" said Alfred happily, strolling to the passenger side and popping the door open. "Knew I could count on you."

Smithers walked around to the driver's side and stood for a moment, looking down at the car, fingering the keys in his hand. At the moment, the idea of climbing into that bruised red car filled him with a deep sense of disgust, the same he'd use to feel whenever he had to reach into a dirty garbage disposal, his hand sliding past the slime and crusted things and God-knows-what-else. Everything in his being rebelled against it.

The next thing Alfred heard was the sound of the opposite door popping open as Smithers climbed in and slid the key into the slot.

Soon, the pair was speeding down the highway, away from the nuclear power plant and towards Springfield International Airport.

The only real thought on Smithers's mind was that Alfred would not stop talking.

"It's a real nice place I picked up, Waylon," he said, excitedly. He was very animated as spoke, complete with hand gestures. "Got all the stuff I need. And some stuff I don't. But what can you say? It's my golden years, right? And I intend to make them as golden as possible. Yes, sir, just finished up the deal a few days ago. Got all moved in in no time. Boy, I really lucked out. With this economy they were practically giving it away! And with a pool in the back? What a steal! Yeah, you two are gonna love it, I just know it! Say, do you know any good country clubs, Waylon?"

We went on like this for quite a while. Waylon, do you know any good places to eat? And the neighborhood, what's the neighborhood like, Waylon? Did you see the game yesterday, Waylon? What do you think of the governor, Waylon? Hey Waylon, were you here for that thing with the dome? What was _that_ about?

Then, after a while, "Why won't you _talk_ to me, Waylon?"

Now, where was this coming from all the sudden? Smithers had never known his stepfather to be a particularly chatty person. Not when he was around, anyway, and certainly not to his face. In the face of this sudden amiability, he felt only slight bafflement, in the shadow of everything else. But still… In the midst of his confusion, Smithers also felt a muddled kind of ease. The talking wasn't what to watch for. If he was talking, then he couldn't get quiet. And when things got quiet…

This is what Smithers was thinking about when he came to a stoplight, looked over, and realized that they were by the cemetery.

The light had just turned red, so Smithers took the time to look over at the grassy knoll on the other side of the road. From where he was he could see the many stones and monuments that dotted the curving pathways amongst the severe and precisely cut topiaries and other vegetation of the cemetery grounds. The sunlight lay over the whole scene and lit up the flowers, the spots of light in the green leaves, and the flecks of mineral in each stone quite nicely.

Smithers hadn't been up there in quite a while. There weren't really any graves up there for him to visit, and though Mr. Burns had seen many people lowered into the ground in his time, he never went up there except to gloat. But maybe it was because of the bright sunlight gleaming off of the stones, or maybe it was because he had so recently been separated from everything he held dear, but he suddenly found himself drawn momentarily to that place covered in flowers that he rarely thought about. At the edge of his vision, he saw a tree, its branches outstretched in the only patch of shade in the entire grounds. And in that shade, he thought he saw a single grave.

It was strange. He didn't really remember, but, he thought, just for a moment, that hadn't he gone to that funeral…?

He was trying to remember a little more clearly when he suddenly felt something heavy seize his shoulder. He jumped in his seat and gasped and turned to see his stepfather looking right at him with a strange expression.

"Light's green, boy," he said, an eyebrow raised.

Smithers was still breathing a little heavily as the car sped away. "Look," he said, after a while. "What… What exactly is going on?"

"Huh?" said Alfred, who had been looking out the window, humming a little to himself. "What do you mean?"

"Why are you doing this?" Smithers persisted. "Why are you being so… so…?"

"So what, Waylon?" Alfred asked.

Smithers gaped for a moment then sighed. "Never mind," he said. "Forget it."

Alfred let out a breath between his teeth. "Ah, Waylon," he said, sounding somewhat disappointed. "Always the thorn of suspicion. Can't a man be nice once in a while? I'm just trying to be nice."

"Yeah," said Smithers. "Okay."

"Geez," Alfred went on. "I bet you're a real winner with a cheery attitude like that. No one likes a sourpuss, son." He turned to Smithers, smirking a little. "You'll never make any friends with that attitude."

"I have… friends," Smithers protested weakly, avoiding his stepfather's eyes.

"Really," said Alfred dryly. "Like who?"

Smithers's mind raced, as he frantically searched his memory. _Friends, friends, friends… _There had to be some friends in here somewhere! He couldn't say Mr. Burns, not in front of Alfred. His face burned with humiliation at the thought.

"Homer Simpson," he finally blurted.

"Who?" asked Alfred.

Smithers wanted to smack himself. But it couldn't be helped now; it was the first name that had popped into his head. "Someone from the plant," he muttered. "A coworker."

"Really?" said Alfred. "And he's friends with you?" Smithers didn't miss the subtle emphasis on that last word. "What's he like?"

"Oh, he's…" Smithers stalled, as he tried to come up with an appropriate adjective to sum up his experience with Homer Simpson. Would "friendly" work? No. What about "intelligent?" Not in the slightest. "Hardworking?" Nope. "Nice?" No, even_ nice _wasn't right.

"He's… unique," he finally managed.

The corner of Alfred's mouth twitched. "I see," he said. "What, uh, what does he do?"

"Oh, he's the safety inspector," said Smithers, grateful to at least be asked something he could answer.

The corner of Alfred's mouth twitched slightly. "Heh, really?" was all he said.

Smithers looked over at Alfred, an eyebrow raised. _What's so funny?_ he almost asked. But now Alfred was looking out the window grinning about something, and Smithers felt that the moment had passed and let it go. Talking to this man wasn't something he wanted to do, anyway.

Finally, after what felt like the longest car ride in Smithers's life, the pair arrived at Springfield International Airport. Smithers vaguely remembered that Alfred had said something about his daughter arriving from Austria, so he pulled the car into the lane for Austrian Airlines. He had just pulled up to the curb and was about to unlock the door when Alfred suddenly reached over, placed his hand on Smithers's shoulder and said, "Hey, Waylon? Can I ask you something?"

Smithers looked over at his stepfather. Alfred seemed unsure of himself. He was looking down toward the floor and he looked somewhat uncomfortable, as though about to confide something very personally. Smithers waited.

"Well…" he began hesitantly. "Y'know, this is the first time I've seen my daughter in… a while. And, I…" He rubbed the back of his neck, still looking away. "Well, I guess I'm kind of nervous."

Smithers didn't see where Alfred was going with this.

"I want to do the best I can for her," he said, "And I know it's weird, but I'd like her to like me. Such as I am."

Smithers suddenly realized that Alfred expected him to get out of the car and go inside with him. And that thought struck Smithers as so bizarre that he had no idea what to think.

"The thing is," he went on awkwardly, "She doesn't know about you. And she doesn't know about… well, you know."

Smither's eyes narrowed.

"So, I was wondering," he said, "Could you maybe not mention anything about, you know, all that?" He waved his hand in the air dismissively at this, as if to demonstrate that the "all that" was inconsequential. "Just keep it a secret that you're my stepson? I'd hate to think what she would think of that."

Smithers felt something like bile rising up in his throat. The air inside of the car boiled like a stew. He swallowed. "Okay," he said.

Alfred's face immediately lit up. "Really? You mean it? Aw, thanks, Waylon," he said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're a real life-saver!" he said, beaming. It was an art he had perfected, to direct a smile at someone that made it seem as though they had just made him the happiest man in the world.

Smithers pulled the key out of the ignition and unhooked the seatbelt, not looking Alfred in the eyes. Alfred reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a whiteboard and a black marker. He quickly scribbled something on it and held it out sideways.

"Here," he said, "I need you to hold this."

Smithers took the board and looked down on it. On it was scrawled, in Alfred's neat handwriting, "Amelia Spencer."

He tucked the board under his arm and exited the car.

The two of them walked through the glass doors into the baggage claim area, Smithers holding the sign in front of him, Alfred leading the way. He seemed somewhat agitated. He walked with long, rapid steps, and he kept looking around, as though afraid he might miss something. "Hmm, let me see," he said, his eyes darting around. "She should be around here somewhere…"

Smithers looked around idly. The airport wasn't that full today, and the people in this particular baggage claim all looked rather sluggish, moving slowly, with bags under their eyes. Here and there, he could hear snippets of what sounded like German. He held up the sign so that it was visible, but none of the passengers seemed interested. Alfred apparently didn't find what he was looking for either. His eyes slid from one person to another, never stopping for a moment.

Suddenly, he stopped. "Hold on," he said. "Is that her?"

Smithers looked up where Alfred was looking. There, across the carousel, apart from everyone else, stood a girl in a long skirt. Most of the other passengers were moving off in groups, chatting tiredly with one another, but she was alone, looking unsure of where she was.

"I think that's her," Alfred said quietly. "Amelia!" he called.

The girl started and looked up. "What?" she said.

Alfred raised his arm and waved in the air. Smithers flipped up the sign. "Amelia!" he called.

The girl looked over and spotted them. Her eyes slipped right past Smithers and locked straight on Alfred. Her face lit with recognition. "Father?" she asked, starting forward.

Alfred grinned. "Hey, sweetheart!" he called. "It's been a while."

"Father!" the girl cried happily. Alfred opened his arms wide, smiling. To Smithers's utter surprise, the girl ran across the airport floor, her single bag clattering behind her and threw herself into Alfred's arms, clasping him tightly.

"Oof," said Alfred, laughing. "Easy, easy there!"

"I'm here! I'm here, father!" the girl was saying. Smithers thought he could see tears in her eyes.

"Hey, it's good to see you!" said Alfred. "Here, let me look at you." He set her down and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Man, you're so thin," he said, making a face, "What were those nuns feeding you?"

Amelia Spencer chuckled. "Oh, it's alright. I had plenty to eat on the plane." Her Austrian accent was rather thick.

"Airline food? Nasty," said Alfred. "We need to get you something good and proper. Something American. How was your flight?"

"Ah, long, too long!" she said. "I thought I'd never get here."

They went on like that for a while. Smithers was rather taken aback. He hadn't really given any thought about what Alfred's daughter would be like, but if he had imagined it, it would not have been something like this. The entire look of this girl was cheerful and breezy. Her long dirty blonde hair that fell to her shoulders, and she was rather conservatively dressed, with a long skirt and a long-sleeved sweater, but since both were bright pink for some reason, it gave her the effect of looking like a little girl. On a chain around her neck was a single wooden cross.

And yet, the resemblance to Alfred was unmistakable. This girl was tall and lanky, like he was, with slender eyes, and her face lit up vividly when he smiled, just as his did.

At this moment, she happened to glance up and see Smithers, who felt a twinge of discomfort as their eyes met. "Hmm?" she said, blankly. "Father? Who is this?"

Alfred looked over at Smithers as though he had forgotten he was there. "Oh, right," he said. He slammed a hand into Smithers's back, causing him to gasp. "This is Smithers," he said. "He works for me."

"Wow, really?" she asked, apparently impressed.

"Yup!" said Alfred proudly. "He's new, so be nice to him."

"Ah, I see!" she said. "Well, then," She stepped up to Smithers and took his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Herr Smithers," she said, shaking his hand firmly.

Smithers blinked. "Um, pleasure's all mine," he managed.

Alfred beamed. "Well, now that we're all acquainted, shall we go?" he said. "Smithers can get your bag for you."

"Oh, he doesn't have to do that," laughed his daughter. "I can get it myself."

"No, no, that won't do," replied Alfred, waving his hand in the air. "You're home now. Let me take care of you."

"Alright, alright," his daughter said, humoring him. She quickly passed the bag to Smithers, who took it without a word.

"Right! Let's get a move on!" proclaimed Alfred. "I can't wait to show you the house!"

The pair of them continued talking like that for the rest of the walk back to the car, Smithers tagging behind, carting the bag. He raised his eyes up from where they had been gazing at the floor at looked at the two of them, neither of them paying him any mind, each of them looking as if they desired nothing in the world but to speak to each other, locked in their own bubble of happiness. Neither of them had to say anything to let him know that he wasn't welcome. He didn't really mind; he had no desire to get acquainted with either of them, but he wondered how long he would have to hand around these people. How long before his stepfather got bored with whatever it was he was trying to do? A few weeks? Months? Years? Maybe the rest of his life. The thought depressed him immensely. Ah, if only Mr. Burns were here…

Before Smithers would have liked, the three of them were back at the car. "Here we are," said Alfred. "Smithers can drive us."

The girl's eyes grew rather big. "Really?" she said. "A personal driver! Ah, I feel like a princess!"

Alfred chuckled. "Why don't you sit in the front, Amelia? I'll sit in the back."

"Oh, no, father, you don't have to do that!" the girl immediately protested. "I couldn't make you sit in the back."

"It's fine," said Alfred. "I'll probably just sleep part of the way there."

Smithers wordlessly placed the bag in the trunk and climbed into the car. Alfred's daughter climbed into the passenger seat right next to him, watching him with an expression of awe. Soon, the back door popped open, and Alfred scrambled in, too. "Well, hop to it, Smithers," he said.

Smithers sat in front of the steering wheel for a moment. "Where exactly am I going?" he asked.

"Ah, right! I almost forgot!" Alfred quickly reached into his pocket and pulled out of a piece of paper. "There you go," he said, passing it to Smithers.

Smithers glanced at the address on the paper and nodded. The car started and they moved off.

Alfred began prompting his daughter about her trip.

"Oh, father, it was so wonderful!" she said. "The plane was so big, and they had blankets and everything!"

"Is that so?" said Alfred, sounding amused. "I thought you said the flight was too long."

"Well, _of course_ it was too long," she said, rolling her eyes a little. "Ah, I could hardly sit still the whole way here. But you know, they have these little screens in the back of the chairs, and you can watch movies, and there's a little map that shows you where the plane is."

"Really," said Alfred. "They didn't have those when I went."

"And, you know the plane took off in Vienna, right?" she added.

"Yeah."

"Well, I'd never been to Vienna before! Oh, it was so amazing! There were so many people, and they have this chocolate cake in this little café near the street, and there's this big concert hall where they play Mozart, and you can see people walking around in the square dressed like him, too. Ah, I wish I had a camera so I could get a picture with them!" She was talking rather fast.

Alfred laughed. "Sounds like you had quite a time, sweetie."

"Oh, I did! I did!" the girl repeated happily. "Have you ever been to Vienna, father?"

"Ah, no," replied Alfred, sighing. "I'd always meant to go, but you know. Things happen."

"What about you?" the girl asked, turning to Smithers. "Have you ever been to Vienna, Herr Smithers?"

Smithers turned quickly to look at her, surprised at being included in the conversation. "Er… No. I haven't either," he said awkwardly. And it was true. He had never been. But Mr. Burns had. He knew that for a fact. ("A fine city," he'd said. "But it's just not the same anymore. Democracy never did suit Vienna.")

"By the way," the girl added, "I never did thank you for getting my bag. And for driving us home. Thank you."

"Uh…" said Smithers, who wasn't used to being thanked for anything he did. "Don't mention it."

"Hey!" Alfred chimed in, waving a finger in the air, "Don't you spoil him, now! That's what I'm paying him for."

"Well, I'm not used to being waited on like this! It's a little strange!" the girl replied, turning around in her seat. She turned back to Smithers. "Tell me," she said, "How is it that you met my father?"

Smithers was suddenly very aware of Alfred watching him from the back seat. "Oh, I've… known him for a while," he said. "He, uh, offered me a job when I… lost my old one."

"I see," said Alfred's daughter, apparently satisfied with this answer.

"Yup!" said Alfred, throwing an arm around both chairs in front. "It's the least I could do. Smithers here is like to family to me." He turned his head and winked at his daughter. "So, don't do anything to him that I wouldn't!"

"Father!" scolded the girl. Smithers began to turn green. "Don't tease him like that!"

"Ah, he knows I'm just joking. Right, Smitty?"

Smithers felt a sensation like centipedes crawling in his stomach. "R-Right," he said.

The girl shook her head, putting on an air of exasperation. "Honestly!"

Alfred and his daughter continued to chat for most of the way back, talking about this and that. Occasionally, the girl would make a comment or ask a small question of Smithers, who was paying attention more closely now that he knew he might be included. Eventually, on the ritzier side of town, they reached their destination. Smithers looked down at the paper Alfred had scribbled for him and looked up at the brass number engraved on the mailbox. "8176." This was the place.

Smithers pulled up in the driveway in front and looked up at the house. It was large, apparently two stories, with a small creek with a bridge in front. It was white, of course, and he could see what looked like a balcony on the upper floor. But it still wasn't as big as Mr. Burns' house, he noted with some bitter satisfaction.

"This is it," he said to Alfred's daughter. The girl was already looking at the house, her eyes glittering. "Um, welcome home I guess."

"Oh, my!" she exclaimed. "It's as grand as I imagined!" Smithers was beginning to think that maybe he should walk around outside and open the door for her, but the girl wasted no time in bolting out of the car. Smithers blinked before turning to the back seat. "Sir, we're here," he called softly.

"Eh?" said Alfred, who had indeed been dozing for the last leg of the trip. "What's that?"

"We're here," repeated Smithers. "This is your house, right?"

Alfred blinked and looked out the window. "Ah. Yes," he said. "So it is." He seemed a little disoriented, though, Smithers supposed, that could be because he was asleep. "Well, let's go then," he said. And he exited the car, too. Smithers sat a moment, then sighed before following.

The two were already inside by the time Smithers pulled the bag out of the trunk and hoisted it up the steps to the front door. Alfred was smiling proudly, one hand on his waist, and his daughter was gazing open mouthed at the interior. The front door opened into a wide-open room. To the side of this was a living room area, with a large, plush couch surrounding a TV. To the other side was a flight of wooden stairs that went up to the upper floors, where a hallway lined with doors could be seen above. The hallway in between led to a back area, where Smithers supposed the oft bragged-about pool would be. A small chandelier inside a glass crystal hung down in front of the large upper window, giving the whole room a look of being filled with light and crystal.

All Smithers could really think while looking at this setup was that the house was smaller than Mr. Burns' on the inside, too, and this filled him with the same spiteful satisfaction.

"Well, honey?" Alfred was saying. "Do you like it?"

"Oh, it's wonderful, father!" the girl replied. But for some reason this time her exclamation seemed like an afterthought. Actually, she seemed to be eyeing the stairs to the second floor rather intently. "Um!" she said suddenly, turning to her father. "Could I maybe go up to my room, now?" she asked, pointing. "I feel a little tired."

"Oh, sure. Go ahead, sweetie," replied Alfred pleasantly.

The girl didn't wait to be told twice. She immediately raced up the stairs, her skirt flying behind her.

"First door on the left, sweetheart!" Alfred called after her. Smithers raised an eyebrow but set the bag next to the door without a comment.

Alfred waited until he heard the door upstairs open and close before he turned to Smithers. "Well?" he asked expectantly.

"Well, what?" asked Smithers.

"What did you think of her?" he pressed. "My treasure. She's pretty great, right?"

Smithers stared. Why on earth would Alfred care what he thought about her? Wasn't him waving their excessive happiness in his face enough? He swallowed and did what he was used to doing. "Absolutely, sir," he said.

"My little angel," Alfred went on, apparently ignoring Smithers. "Almost literally, what with her being in a convent and all." He turned away from Smithers and took a few steps toward the living room. "Sweet as a muffin. Bilingual, too. Every parent dreams of having a kid who's bilingual."

Smithers, who spoke eight languages fluently, didn't respond to this. Instead, he said, "Can I ask you something?"

Alfred didn't turn around, so Smithers continued. "You said before… That she isn't my mother's daughter. So… who_ is_ her mother? And… _where _is she?"

Alfred still didn't turn. Smithers felt a bubble of silence growing between him, and at this bubble he felt a strange crawling trickling down his spine. The quiet, the quiet was what to watch for.

"I don't believe that's any of your business," Alfred said softly.

Smithers looked away, trying to suppress his shaking. "Right," he said.

Alfred turned to face his stepson, an eyebrow raised. His normal smile had turned into a smirk. "Why so curious all the sudden? She's here and she's happy, isn't that enough?"

"Yes," said Smithers robotically. "Of course it is."

Alfred's smile softened. Slowly, he walked over to Smithers and threw his arms around him. Smithers's whole body jolted.

"I know this is probably a big change for you," Alfred said softly, "And I know I haven't been the best. But I want to make it up to you, Waylon. And I really do want all of us to be together. Alright?"

Smithers didn't know what to think or what to feel. All he knew was that he didn't like having this man this close. The same instinct came up in him again. The impulse to run. But he swallowed it down. "Alright," he said, shakily.

"Good," said Alfred.

At this moment, Alfred's watch began beeping. "Eh?" he said, looking down. He released Smithers and gazed down at his watch. "Shit, is that really the time?" he exclaimed suddenly. He stepped away from Smithers and grinned apologetically. "Sorry, Waylon, I gotta go," he said. He began to scoop up his jacket from where he'd left it on the couch.

Smithers was dumbfounded. "Go?" he repeated.

"Yeah," said Alfred, pulling down the collar of his jacket. His voice had taken on that breathy quality that people develop when they're in a hurry. "There's something I gotta take care of. I'll be back in an hour or two." He turned and strode quickly to the front door.

"You're leaving?" Smithers repeated dumbly. "But, what about your-"

"Sorry, Waylon, but I'm running late."

"But, shouldn't you be-" said Smithers, pointing upstairs weakly.

"Ah, I wish I could stay, but you know how it is. I'm going to have to ask to watch her for a while. Could you give me the keys?"

Smithers blinked. The keys? Did he mean the car keys? Did this mean he didn't want Smithers to drive him wherever he was going? That didn't seem like him at all. On the other hand, if Alfred really didn't want Smithers to come, then Smithers certainly wasn't going to argue.

Then, something else occurred. He's taking the car. "Wait!" called Smithers, "What am I supposed to do?"

"Erm, you're supposed to give me the _keys,_ Waylon."

"No, I mean, I'll be stuck here!" Smithers protested. "I can't leave if you have the-"

"Oh, that's no trouble," said Alfred. "I know where you live. I can just run by and pick up some stuff for you. I'd like you to stay here for a few days, if that's alright. Oh, that means I'll need the keys to your apartment, too."

"What?" exclaimed Smithers, "But, what am I-?"

"The _keys,_ Smithers."

Smithers made a desperate kind of breathy sound and plunked the car keys into Alfred's hand. "But what am I supposed to tell-?"

"Just tell her the truth," said Alfred. "That I'll be gone for a few hours, and I'll be back later."

"But-! But-!"

"Smithers," said Alfred sternly. "Sorry, but I'm running late, and you're really not helping."

Smithers gaped at Alfred helplessly. A thousand things to say were pinging inside his head all at once, and the result was that nothing at all was coming out of his throat.

"So," said Alfred, "Your keys?" He held out his hand, expectantly.

Smithers stared at his stepfather's hand as though it were a steel trap, open, waiting for him to step down. He quietly exhaled and reached into his pocket for his apartment keys. He found them and placed them into Alfred's hand, defeated.

Alfred winked. "'Preciate it," he said. And with that, the door closed behind him.

In a few seconds, the revving of the car engine could be heard, and he was gone.

Smithers stood at the front door for a moment, his head hanging down. He was alone. Alone. Alone in this house. Alone without Mr. Burns. Alone, so alone.

Smithers turned away from the door bitterly. Pick up your car, he'd said. Pick up your things, he'd said. I want us to be together, he'd said. He knew better. He knew what Alfred had done. He could've guessed right from the start, that things would probably end up like this. No car. No clothes. No way to get into his own home. He was trapped.

Alfred had essentially made him a prisoner in his house.

* * *

**AN: **

_"Ah, long, too long!" Are words that could describe this chapter pretty well, too! I'm sorry. (No, I'm not.) But there was a lot that needed to happen, and I didn't want to cut it off arbitrarily. But, I made you wait so long for this chapter, so since you had to wait extra long, you get extra chapter! Does that make sense? Maybe?_

_Oh, and for those of you who have expressed the desire to show support for Lisbeth Simpson, the writer who inspired this story, I have been informed via anonymous tip-off that she can be found at the number 6742 on this very site. So, if you want to let her know how much you enjoyed her writing or show her support in any other way, that's where to find her. That way, you can please stop telling me to tell her how much you love her. It would mean much more coming from you._

_As always, reviews are appreciated. And, again, sorry about the wait!_


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